Re:Creators Episode 20 Discussion

"Then comes the sound. The sound of the world ending. Altair's world ending. The sound several gallons of water make when thrown against a hard wall, mixed with a bird hitting a window, only that much more solid. Like hitting a bag of wet cement with a baseball bat. In a blur of blood, bone, and stained metal, Setsuna's arm is torn from what little grip Altair had upon it. The body it is attached to, still recognizably female, twists unnaturally against a force it was never meant to withstand, as it is sucked first forward, and then under the undercarriage of the train. The metallic squeal of airbrakes and roar of the air-horn mercifully mask the sound of flesh and bone being pulverized under hundreds of tons of steel.

In the distance and across the tracks, the sounds of Hoshikawa regurgitating her last meal onto the concrete can be dimly heard over the hiss of airbrakes as the train finally stops. Whatever is left of Shimazaki's corpse is mercifully hidden from view. Altair hits the concrete arm and shoulder first, rolling, then skidding to a stop. The swords of her holopsicon, now rudderless for the trauma of their owner, clatter off of the surface of the platform and scatter like chaff in the wind.

A moment, two, then three, come and go. All present, and all those watching from their devices, sit in horrified silence. In the stillness the sun seems that much brighter, as though attempting to wash away what has just taken place. Then a distinctly human sound begins to fill the voice. Some in the audience begin to think that it is laughter, and look around; who would be laughing at a time like this? Then they realize that the sound is coming from Altair.

The noise Altair produces is a wretched and pitiful thing, not laughter but body-wracking sobs that come faster and faster until they merge into one banshee-like wail of sorrow.

As this goes on, the audience becomes disconcerted; the "camera" has now focused on an increasingly distraught Altair for nearly ten seconds. Whispers circulate among the crowd.

Then, all of a sudden, Altair's wailing stops. Something has caught her attention, and it isn't the creations on the other platform. Then the audience notices it, too. A pair of black glasses, lying near the end of the platform. Their lenses are shattered, and one of the arms is missing, but they are quite clearly glasses.

Her head lols in their direction almost lazily, and she stares. And stares. Watching. Thinking. Calculating. Remembering.

Then she speaks a single word. One that comes unbidden to her lips, whispered at first. She feels it. Tastes it. Savors it, playing with it as her sorrow turns, like a centrifuge spinning up, to rage. It becomes intertwined with everything she once hated, now defined by that single word. A name.

"Souta."

"Souta."

"SoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSoutaSouta"

The name turns to a roar of rage as she repeats it over and over again, as every alarm in the Creators' CIC wails at once. The military personnel, once stoic, now panic for the sheer number of magnetic disturbances being reported.

Then, with a sound somewhere between shattering glass, radio static, and thunder, the cage disintegrates.

Seconds later, a thunderclap erupts within the stadium, accompanied by blinding blue light. Dazzled, the audience shields their eyes. What they see before them when they recover does not make sense. Cannot make sense. Upon each of the screens is Altair...........standing before them. Yet before them stands girl who clearly cannot exist. She hovers some fifteen feet above the ground, swords whirling and slicing through the air about her body. The air currents generated by them tug lazily at her cobalt-coloured hair and pigtails, as well as the fringes of her open trenchcoat, fanning them out. Beneath the coat she wears a body-hugging silken leotard-dress combo, tight enough that it accentuates her form, but not so tight that it leaves nothing to the imagination. Her face is that of a teenager on the precipice of becoming an adult. Still soft, but with defined cheekbones and a jawline which give her an appearance that's almost quasi-nordic, but somehow still Japanese as well. Her eyes, crimson red within sapphire blue, rest above high cheekbones and below a well defined brow. Centered between them is a slightly turned-up nose, which rests above cupid's-bow lips and a soft chin.

The quick among the audience realize that, somehow, the impossible has become possible. Some turn to flee, perhaps suspecting the worst. Most stand or sit stock still, transfixed. From the entrances to the interior of the stadium, JSDF soldiers begin taking up positions on the sidelines and atop the stage. Now sensing that something is deeply wrong, the crowd begins to shuffle nervously A very gradual movement begins towards the exits. They're not openly fleeing yet, but a, like a group of frightened rabbits, there's a slight and palpable movement backwards, away from this new "threat."

The girl's eyes pan over the crowd, an almost satisfied look on her face, almost like a mother gazing upon her children.

Then the girl opens her mouth with a grin that almost seems a bit too wide for her head, and speaks in a voice that no human would ordinary produce. A husky, contralto voice normally reserved for singing or stageplay.

"Greetings, my brothers and sisters. Tell me, where might I find Souta Mizushino?"

Some miles away, Magane stands up and smiles, satisfaction evident on her face. Everything is going according to plan.